Chapter Fifteen #2
Should he get into the bed? Or is that a bit too suggestive, like he’s waiting for him?
Plus, he hasn’t asked if Nash has a side preference and seeing as Nash’s stuff is on both bedside tables, he can’t infer either.
Perhaps he just sleeps right down the middle.
Either way, if Christopher gets in first he might be forcing him to sleep in the wrong place and that seems rather rude seeing as Nash invited him to share.
He’s dithering, but his mind keeps whirring.
And before he can make a decision, Nash leaves the bathroom, and dives onto the left side of the bed, pulling the duvet up over his chest to right under his chin.
And, as though this wasn’t a big deal, he just starts flicking through something on his phone.
Maybe it isn’t a big deal to him at all.
Everything he does seems at once so intentional and also without hesitation or thought or worry. What must that be like? Christopher’s brain is still whirring, and yet he hasn’t moved an inch.
‘Are you getting in? Your hovering is weirding me out,’ Nash murmurs.
‘Oh, err, sorry,’ Christopher mumbles, abandoning the plan he was conjuring up to busy himself in the kitchen to put off the next step.
‘Stop apologising too.’
‘Right. I’ll take this side then.’ He folds back the duvet on the right-hand side, and sits down on the sheet, his feet on the floor. It’s an improvement from standing awkwardly by the bed, at least. All he has to do is swing his legs up and lie down, and that’s it.
Simple.
He’ll just lie down next to an extremely attractive man in his bed.
This is fine.
Except, what if their feet touch when he does that? What if he’s too close to Nash when he lies down and they both feel weird? How close to the edge of the bed should he be?
‘Would you prefer to be on this one?’ Nash asks, which sends alarms in Christopher’s head blaring before he realises Nash is asking if they need to swap sides of the bed.
‘No, this is fine. It’s my usual side anyway.’ This is a lie, of course. He normally sleeps on the left, but he’s not going to say that now.
With a big sigh, he lies down under the covers. This is fine. They’re not touching at all – thankfully Christopher’s bed is wide enough for them both. But he can definitely feel the warmth of Nash’s body.
Christopher is so tall that his feet stick out the end of the bed, which is unfortunately normal and he’s grown used to sleeping with cool toes.
But he hadn’t banked on the fact that Nash is a bit of a duvet hog.
Not only is it pulled up against him, but he’s tucked it around himself, forming a neat little cocoon that leaves little for Christopher to manoeuvre with.
There’s a cold strip running down the length of his body where the duvet doesn’t reach the mattress.
He tugs a little on the duvet but it holds fast. Another tug, and a wriggle, and still, nothing.
‘Could you possibly cede some of the covers,’ he sniffs, tugging once again.
‘You’ve got more than enough.’
‘I do not. I’m barely covered.’
‘Yes but that’s because you’re freakishly long and not because I’m using more than my fair share,’ says Nash from the other side of the bed, where he is almost certainly hogging over fifty per cent of the duvet.
‘You are. You’re not even that big and you’re hogging it.’
‘Maybe you’re just not used to sharing.’
‘Or maybe you’re just bad at it.’
Nash groans and sits up to assess the situation. ‘Christopher. The reason the duvet is barely covering you is because you’ve left a gulf the size of the Mariana Trench between us. Stop being a weirdo, lie on the bed normally, and the blanket will fit.’
Annoyingly, Nash isn’t wrong. This is worse than Christopher thinking that Nash was just a selfish bed mate, because it means Christopher is being weird, and it’s becoming a thing.
‘Fine. Sorry.’
‘Stop saying sorry.’
He shuffles sideways under the covers; the radiated heat gets stronger and stronger.
Until they make physical contact. They both jerk back, as though electrocuted by the touch.
‘I said get closer, not get on top of me,’ groans Nash, and Christopher can feel himself going deep maroon again.
‘Goodnight!’ he practically shouts, rolling over onto his side with his back to Nash. He leans over to the table on his side and flicks off the light. Now, only the lamp on Nash’s side lights the room in a dusky orange glow.
‘Night,’ Nash sighs with exasperation, but Christopher swears there’s a smile in there. There’s a curve to his words, a softness.
But he doesn’t settle down to sleep and the light is still on. From the small movements behind him, it seems as if he’s still up reading things on his phone.
‘I thought you were going to go to sleep?’ murmurs Christopher after about ten minutes.
‘Weren’t you?’
‘Clearly I’m attempting to.’
‘I’ll attempt you in a moment.’
Christopher rolls onto his back. ‘What does that even mean? What are you doing anyway?’
‘None of your business.’ But after a beat he adds, ‘Emails.’
‘It’s quite late.’
‘Not in LA.’
‘Is everything all right? Don’t they know you’re on holiday? Or is this an American work culture thing?’
‘Eh, kinda, yes and probably also that.’
He wants to pry. And he also wants to take the phone and fling it away from Nash, especially now that he knows that sleeping is important to keeping his seizures under control.
Which, now that he thinks about it, is probably why he just disappeared off to bed last night and was quite blunt.
Obviously it’s not Christopher’s fault for not knowing, but he feels a bit bad about judging him so harshly now that he knows he was just looking after his brain.
It must be pretty tricky to manage, after all.
But before he can find a way to suggest Nash settles down in a non-irritating, non-overbearing way, Nash says, ‘Sorry. Do you want me to turn the light off?’
‘No, it’s fine.’ And with a gulp of breath he adds, ‘But maybe you should go to sleep? We’ve probably got another busy day coming up tomorrow.’
‘All right, Mother.’ Nash might growl at this, but he does set his phone down on the table and flick the light off.
Christopher rolls back over onto his side, facing the wall. ‘I’m not your mother.’
‘Thank God. Else this would be really weird.’
‘But . . . you did come here to escape or relax or whatever, and it’s hardly been that. And as we’ve probably got another big day tomorrow, you probably need your beauty sleep.’
He hears Nash grumble something about beauty sleep, but soon his soft breaths give way to light snores.
As they both settle down to sleep, Christopher can’t help but think about how nice it is not to be alone up here. To have someone else with him. He really had been lonely. And that’s probably the only reason why he’s thinking about it, and noticing how close Nash is to him.
Definitely.
Sometime later, Christopher stirs from a dreamful sleep filled with gingerbread and reindeer and so much snow.
When he opens his eyes, he finds himself facing Nash.
In the night, they must have both rolled over in their sleep, and now their faces are close, so close that he can taste Nash’s sweet breath.
It’s as if they’ve been drawn to each other.
Perhaps, in a way, they were. Not just in this bed but in a broader, cosmic sense.
Christopher isn’t one for superstition necessarily, other than enjoying blaming things going wrong on Mercury being retrograde and his and Kit’s annual tradition of a Christmas wish, but he can’t deny this whole situation feels . . . not magical, but created.
What a coincidence it is for Nash to be here in his bed when, for the last few months, he’s been watching Nash act out so many magical stories on his tablet.
And as much as he protested to Laurel and Ambrose about whether he’s interested in Nash, he’s undeniably attracted to him.
There’s something chemical. A spark that sometimes shocks, but maybe it could thrill too.
Part of him wants to stay here, capture this moment where this beautiful gremlin of a man is quiet and at peace, rather than frustrating the hell out of him. But sleep drags him back under. And, without either of them knowing, as they are too deeply asleep to truly feel it, their hands intertwine.